


Retrospect

by Jupistruck



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-31
Updated: 2014-05-31
Packaged: 2018-01-27 20:14:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1721150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jupistruck/pseuds/Jupistruck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Ostagar, Alistair reflects.</p><p>An old fic I was particularly proud of.  Inspired by Aimo's "Wounded" comic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Retrospect

  
He sat facing out into the swamp, disbelieving stupor slowly fading into a foggy, choking grief. Everyone was dead. Duncan, the other Grey Wardens... even the loss of Cailin shook him in a way he hadn't thought possible. He'd always borne a seedling of resentment for his half-brother, but never had he wished a fate like this upon him.  
  
From the clutches of of the dragon's claws, he could see where his comrades stood, falling before the waves of Darkspawn. And before succumbing to unconsciousness, he saw the lines of Loghain's hardened soldiers moving away from the slaughter, having never drawn their swords. He choked back the bile in his throat. He'd already emptied his stomach long before, giving in to dry heaves would only make things worse. Or perhaps, he thought wryly, it would distract him from the horrifying circle of his thoughts.  
  
He'd known that they would all fall to either the darkspawn or the taint eventually, had accepted the fate of the Grey Warden rather more easily than most, Duncan had told him. At the time, he'd reasoned that a shortened lifespan spent being regarded as a hero and defending his people from darkspawn would be infinitely less painful than that of a templar. Who could possibly desire a life where he would be expected to kill his own kind in the name of the Chantry, to keep the Circle mages in line, only to fade into a tranquil dementia as the lyrium eventually overtook him? For so long, he had been resigned to that fate... and Duncan had spared him it. Looking back, Alistair wondered if the life of a templar could ever have hurt like this.  
  
He rubbed his forearm absently; the hot tingling from Flemeth's healing had not yet subsided, though the shattered bone was mended entirely. He spared a look back at the ramshackle hut where the other witch was tending to his last remaining companion; the newest grey warden was essentially a stranger; an afternoon in the Wilds was hardly enough time to get to know someone... especially with the knowledge that any or all of them could be lost to the joining, he'd kept his distance from all of them deliberately. He'd actually expected that their task at Ishal would afford him time to get past formal introductions, converse with their green recruit, perhaps answer the questions he'd been unable to answer prior to the Joining. The assault on the tower from within had been a shock, even though a small part of him had thrilled that he was to take part in the battle after all, and moreso that fighting alongside her had come almost like second nature, far more intuitively than he'd expected.  
  
Atop the tower, he'd seen her struck down. The 'o' of surprise as the first arrow pinned into her breast, followed by another. The wounds were not ones that could be survived without immediate care, and the mage who had accompanied them up the tower had been crushed by the ogre that had awaited them. She was lost, he was certain, as he would soon be; alone, he didn't stand a chance against so many foes. And as he fell, he had seen the massive shadow descending, had met the creature's eye in horror, and known these were his last seconds of life. The archdemon itself had come for them, and he couldn't even lift his sword arm, let alone rise to his feet. Not that it would have done him any good, as a mighty claw reached out to scrape each of them from the stone floor.  
  
In the hours since he'd awoken, the ancient Witch of the Wilds had informed him of precisely what had occurred, filling in the gaps left by his assumptions. And she had given him a small shred of hope: the lady had survived after all, and was being tended by the witch's daughter inside. Even so, his head swam in despair. The Grey Wardens, the standing Ferelden Army, King Cailin, and Duncan, all lay dead in the valley surrounding Ostagar because of the trechery of Teryn Loghain.  
  
 _Funny_ , he thought coldly.  _I thought I had so little to lose._


End file.
